Tuesday, February 28, 2012

art centered psychosis

My oldest wants to go into the Art Centered Learning Program at our local high school. In order to do that she had to fill out an application and wait for her audition. For her audition she prepared two piano pieces. I insisted one be classical and being the agreeable child she is...... she agreed.


The kids were going to be performing their talents not only in front of each other but also some of the grade 11's and 12's that are currently in the program. In fact, the grade 12's were the ones in charge of the night and the program.

And, by far, the most silly people I have ever encountered.

They split the grade 9's up into groups and asked them questions. Questions like "what colour headband are you?" And "what kind of cat would you be if you could be any cat in the whole wide world?" And "what super hero are you"?

You know, important questions that make the parents of these grade 9's confident in our decision that this might be a good place for our children to go and receive their high school educations.

I don't know about the other parents but I'm sure feeling confident.

I am confident. I am confident. I am confident.

No.....I'm not.

There is an improv program at this school and so three kids did an improv skit about pickles. It was so beyond ridiculous I had to laugh because.......what else was I going to do?

Pickle improv. High school pickle improv.

Then the kids started presenting their talents in this coffee house type talent show. They included things such as electric guitar death metal, girl teens crying through a borderline operatic rendition of Mad World from the most nervous teen I've ever seen, to the box of abuse.

The box of abuse.

An actual box. That looked like a mini fridge but wasn't a mini fridge. Nor was it the box that a mini fridge comes in, like the man thought it was when I attempted an explanation of the box of abuse.

It was a big white box with a door on the front. And on that door was a collage of pictures of happy people. When you open the door there were pictures taped all over of crying people and gothic people and people who had sad faces. Abused people, so the child explained.

Hence the box of abuse.


Of course Cicely performed her pieces and as she walked to the front my stomach dropped and I remembered all the things I have auditioned for and I wanted to grab her and run for the hills. No one wants to deal with those kinds of nerves and what kind of parent forces their child to experience that?

Mercy, I felt sick. And she looked sick. She was fuchsia. She performed from memory and she did great.

But then.... there was the science song. Two girls sang about how a cell works to the tune of Thriller. And these girls are already in the program.

All I have to say is......

No thank you. Songs about cells? Michael Jackson songs of cells? No. No thank you.

The YouTube video. The ceramic shoe. The mask of the wart hog.

I don't know what to say. Except, songs about cells? No. Thank you.

Cicely told me after that "artists are arrogant." And "abuse boxes are weird."

The teacher told me that Cicely had been accepted into the program and we will be getting an acceptance letter in the mail next week.

When we got home I fed her pumpkin pie and ice cream because........well........artists are arrogant.

And abuse boxes are weird.

Welcome to Crazytown, kiddo.


  1. Oy! I was a drama major at U of C. I could tell you stories about the "artistic type" that would make your eyes roll so much you'd get dizzy. Warm up for my acting class often involved frying like bacon. Not frying bacon, but lying on the floor frying like bacon. Now I've just rolled my own eyes.